


Taking One For The Team

by stria_terminalis



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Baseball, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Come Inflation, Come as Lube, Dirty Talk, Enemas, Feminization, Gags, Gangbang, Inflation, M/M, Multi, Object Insertion, Object rape, Restraints, Size Kink, Stomach Deformation, Stuffing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2016-07-25
Packaged: 2018-07-26 17:54:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7584190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stria_terminalis/pseuds/stria_terminalis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The baseball team corner Dean in the locker room one night and give him everything they've got.</p><p>Check tags for kinks and notes for triggers!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taking One For The Team

**Author's Note:**

> While Dean ultimately has no complaints, please be aware that this story undoubtedly fetishizes rape for kink purposes, and that there's also degrading and feminizing language.
> 
> Other than that, enjoy! This was for a prompt on the SPN kink meme but, again, I have no idea how to find it again. x

They came out of nowhere. Maybe he could’ve taken one or two, but not the whole baseball team, all twenty-five of them. First it’s a blow to his back – heavy and lurching, like a shove – and then hands wrapping around his wrists, and then Dean’s on his knees, the grimy locker room tiles biting hard as he lands.

He’s down to his boxers anyway, post-shower, but rough thumbs make short work of those too. It’s not a dawning realization; Dean doesn’t experience a lightbulb-above-head understanding of what they want. It’s too obvious. He thinks he’s known for a while, ever since his team and theirs started training together.

 _It’s about fucking time,_ he thinks, though he’ll _never_ let on. He doesn’t want role play. He wants them to destroy him on _their_ terms. He can take anything they throw at him.

But they don’t know that, and the last thing Dean wants is for them to catch on that he _wants_ this – that he’s been jerking off to this with half a pillow in his mouth and a cucumber shoved up his ass for weeks now – so he puts up a fight. When they try to prise his lips open, he bites. When they get right up real close, to wrap a gag between his teeth and behind his head, he lunges forward. There’s a dull cracking noise as he manages to give the team captain a nosebleed with his forehead.

“Fucking – _bitch_ ,” the larger man spits, double-taking at his scarlet-smeared fingertips when he pulls them away. “Fuck!”

One of the guys on his left sounds god damned _thrilled._ “Oh my god,” he cackles, “he’s gonna regret that so fucking bad.”

Four or five hands clamp tight to Dean’s head after that, holding him right in place there on the floor as someone stuffs something hard and round past his lips, and _ouch_. It’s a baseball; the stitching rasps against his tongue. Dean can even taste the earthy tang of pitch dirt. One of the guys – he recognizes him as a shortstop – follows up by tying fabric around his mouth, firmly securing the ball. Dean thinks it might be a sock. Or maybe a scarf. He doesn’t care.

“The bench,” someone grunts, jutting his chin at the benches in the center of the locker room, and Dean’s hauled over to it, legs dragging behind him. He still kicks at the floor, shouting around his gag; the sounds it forces him to make are utterly, desperately helpless, and he can feel his own dick throb. “Yeah, that’s it.”

The benches are the two-wide sort, for propping your feet on as you tie your laces, and once Dean’s been slung across them and onto his stomach, his head just hangs off one end while his ass sticks out over the other, his knees neatly meeting the floor. More scarves, now; he feels a hot, tight pressure where his dick’s threatening to properly fatten up where it’s trapped against the bench edge as he’s tied down, legs spread, wrists behind his back. Somebody tugs at each of the bindings in turn to make sure that he’s truly trapped. They want him capable of nothing more than taking it.

“Alright. Get the bag.”

Dean’s chest heaves, arousal pooling in his stomach as _someone_ drags _something_ over, the others watching as they settle in for the show. Some are palming themselves through their shorts, the bulks of their stiffening cocks shifting through the thin uniform fabric. Others openly tug them out and sit back on the benches, lazily stroking back and forth, just warming up.

“You’ve had this coming an awful long time,” someone drawls, the words accompanied by the unmistakable sound of something unzipping, long and slow, followed by heavy-ish objects dropping onto the tiled floor. Dean can’t see a fucking thing besides the eagerly watching team members, and – immediately in front – the grey floor tiles, faintly covered in brown shoeprints.

The first push at his asshole isn’t entirely unexpected – a moment beforehand, hands had roughly shoved his thighs a little further apart – but he twitches violently and makes a low, long noise of protest anyway, eyes squeezing shut. The team captain’s fingers probe, thick and rough. Dean’s squirming and his asshole’s spasming at the rough treatment, but the feeling of such careless, brutal intrusion is _heaven._ It actually registers startlingly late that the stranger fingerfucking him is using lube.

“Uh huh. Yeah, hold this. Let’s hook this bitch up.”

Someone’s footsteps trail out of the locker room for a moment – out the back door, where they kick their muddy shoes off in rainy season – and comes back dragging something soft-ish across the tiles.

Jesus fucking Christ, he knows what that is.

“You got it?”

“Yeah, lube it up, like that. Get it good and deep.”

Dean jerks at the first push of the hosepipe – and wonders, for the first time, if he can really take everything they want to do to him. They feed it into him until the pipe must be at least a few inches deep, buried snugly in his rectum where he can never hope to push it back out.

“Turn it on. Fill her little cunt right up.”

A hissing, liquid sound fills the room. It’s not cold, so he doesn’t feel it at once, but then there’s a weird sensation, like he needs to push, and _holy shit,_ he thinks, _okay, this is how it feels to have something pumped into your ass._ He’s starting to feel it flooding him open, invading and soaking all his deepest places, when the team captain – the one who hooked him up to the hosepipe, apparently – kneels close enough to gently speak to him.

“This isn’t about us fucking you,” the captain tells Dean, his voice a rough, low grumble as he pushes the nozzle a little further up into him and gently spanks it into place. Dean just groans. His ass feels okay, but there’s a rushing pressure moving upwards, pushing up into places where you’re definitely not supposed to feel things pushing up. He tries to remember which intestine comes first; small, or large.

“No, this is about _you_ getting _fucked_. Slutty little thing, showing off all over the pitch. Don’t think we haven’t noticed. You want attention? You win, sweetheart.”

“Careful what you wish for,” someone grunts. Dean sobs as his guts are steadily inflated, the hiss of the pulsing hosepipe providing a constant soundtrack. A spike of arousal shoots through him when he feels the taut fullness pushing at the bench, telling him that he’s slightly swollen and more rounded than usual.

“Fuck, look. He likes it,” another mutters, the others leaning around to get a look at his dick. Dean can only imagine how it looks, judging by the way it’s throbbing between his thighs and his swollen belly. “Don’t take it out. Make him do it longer.”

Dean yells around the baseball crammed into his mouth, tugging desperately at his restraints, _pleading_ no. God, _god,_ there’s too much pumping inside, and it’s impossible not to imagine all that water splashing up inside his straining, trembling guts and into his stomach. He can hear it gurgling over the hose. Just as Dean’s sure that he’s going to pass out, someone suddenly tugs the end of the hose free all at once; there’s a moment where his poor, quivering asshole isn’t sure what it needs before it heaves with all its strength. He actually wails with relief as his insides empty in long, heavy gushes. From the hollow splashes, someone’s got a bucket behind him. He doesn’t care. He just wants it out.

Groaning weakly as the worst of it empties, he goes limp, but then there’s something else pushing at his abused opening. At first, he thinks it’s the hose again, but oh _god, fuck,_ it’s _bigger._ It’s too big. And it’s properly lubed up, drooling down the backs of his thighs. Like they’re planning on pumping it in and out of him by the end of the night.

“ _And it’s Dean Winchester,”_ somebody says, in a mock commentator voice, “ _batting in the first inning!”_

Oh, shit, fucking shit, Dean knows what it is, and he moans in protest as he feels the team captain attempt, once again, to push the end of the baseball bat up into his ass. He works it back and forth, back and forth, pouring lube over the end of the blunt instrument, where Dean’s swollen asshole is mouthing uselessly in its weak attempts to swallow.

“Fucking ram it,” someone groans, and someone else laughs, and someone _else_ moans at the thought. “Fucking ram it up into her.”

“Get that bitch good and full again.”

“Ruin that little fuckhole.”

It takes a good five minutes, but eventually the team captain pushes his weight behind the handle of the baseball bat, and Dean moans with helpless, undisguised pleasure as the bat begins sinking inch by steady inch into his body. He isn’t sure if he’s going to come or cry, his hands twisting uselessly in their bonds as he’s impaled. He can feel his guts being forced to part and rearrange themselves around the thing’s shaft as the captain buries it as deep as possible – until Dean’s sure that in any other position, it’d leave a baseball-bat-shaped little bulge in his abdomen. It must be almost a foot deep. The captain gifts him with two long, slow, wet thrusts. Every time he draws back out, Dean feels his body clench, squeeze and suck at the bat, protesting enough that it forces the captain to put his back into each movement; once, Dean hears him grunt with exertion.

Dean’s getting off on it, being fucked on something big enough to feel in his stomach, but then it’s being slowly, _agonisingly_ tugged out of the hot, clenching cave of his ass. A soft, keening whine comes from his throat as it withdraws, leaving his hole delicately stretched open and dripping fluid; a little wet, trembling tunnel. He can feel the cool air on his insides. Though he tries to clench, his hole refuses to close. It just pulses weakly, lube drooling thickly over the rim.

“Pass the bag,” the captain says, and something slides across the tiles. “We ain’t done yet. You’re gonna be our good little cumdump. Line up, boys.”

It’s not much of a fuck; they’re all on edge, and the first cock that somebody stuffs into Dean’s ruined asshole doesn’t last longer than twenty seconds before spilling. Many are much the same. Number eight shows impressive stamina, pounding him until the bench rattles. The thirteenth load is a big, thick mess; after that, they have to start using the bat between rounds to push each mass of cum deep into his bowels just so that it won’t spill. And number nineteen – he didn’t believe a cock could challenge the girth of the bat, but when number nineteen uses him, it _wrecks_ him, its fat, beer-bottle shaft plunging steadily back and forth. Dean comes on that gorgeous prick, squirting helplessly over the bench and the floor, and a moment later he feels it twitch heavily and add to the weight of cum inside. It makes a soft squelching sound as the man tugs it free, still leaking creamy strings.

By the time all twenty-five team members have emptied their cocks in him, there’s a swelling ache deep in Dean’s belly and there’s drool slicking his chin, his jaw forced too wide to hold anything back – neither the saliva, nor the strained, blissed-out cries that he’s letting out. He’s too far gone to pretend that this isn’t indulging _every_ kink in his inventory. He’d never even managed to come untouched before this evening.

“Good girl,” the captain says, breathing slightly heavily – Dean suspects he was the most recent man to fuck him. “All stuffed full. You know what’s next?”

Someone laughs, and someone’s moving the bag again.

“We’re gonna make sure our good little cumdump stays stuffed for quite some time.”

Something new – a round, solid weight – begins shoving insistently at his ass, but the leaking, messy opening’s too wrecked to push back, and swallows it up with only a weak little moan from Dean. He tries to shit it back out, but then something just like it starts lining up and trying to get inside, too. As it’s pushing it deeper into his quivering rectum, he realizes that they’re baseballs.

“Get another one in her.”

“They’re not going deep enough,” someone says.

“Use the bat, then.”

Another firm, pulsing ache swells in his guts as the team captain smoothly palms the third baseball into Dean’s drenched ass and, once more, inserts the end of the bat. Like he’s loading a cannon. The first ball is deep enough in his system now that each push of the bat causes low, fat squelching sounds, and he knows it’s from the huge glut of cum that was already bloating him. It’s too fucking much; his orgasm hits like a freight train, and when he comes back down, Dean’s pretty sure his body is taking its fifth baseball.

“Holy shit, you guys,” one of the fielders whispers, and Dean feels a big, rough hand massaging at the hard, tight swell of his lower abdomen. “He’s _crammed_ full of those things, check it out. I can _feel_ them.”

“Oh my god, I can see them.”

“Yeah, dude, move the bat again. See?”

His insides groan as another baseball is packed inside, pushing its predecessors ever deeper. It’s true – as the captain plunges the bat in again, Dean can definitely feel the skin of his belly move and stretch around the mass of baseballs as they shift through his cum-soaked bowels.

Eventually, not even the baseball bat can jam another inch of space into Dean’s thoroughly used asshole.

“Yeah, we’re sure as hell not getting anything else in there.”

“Hang on. I’m gonna take photos.”

Dean’s vision swims as the men move around him, pulling their shorts back up. He can hear the clicking of the shutter sound effect on somebody’s phone, but all he can think about is how _full_ he feels.

“Someone’ll come untie you in the morning. Probably.”

When the team zip up the now-much-emptier bag and make for the exit, they leave Dean’s belly bulging, obscenely low and heavy, his body stuffed with baseballs at both ends. Not five minutes pass before he passes out with a puddle of drool beneath his mouth, a puddle of cum around his knees, and a bloated mass of the team’s loads churning in his stomach.


End file.
